


Shallow graves for shallow hearts

by SilvenWolf



Series: Eddsworld is slowly ruining my life [1]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: "The fandom deserves more tord redemption", Amputation, Angst, Gen, Got into this fandom 4 days ago and im over 3 years late, I say to myself in an attempt to validate writing this, I'm sorry for any pain I may or have brought upon every character in this series, My sex repulsed ass couldn't write smut in a million years, Oh btw! There will be absolutely no smut, Or suggestive themes, Paul and Patryck are good dads and they try their best, Paultryck is only really there if you squint, The dads try to help their son make valid life choices but he is a fucking idiot, There will be comfort I swear, Violence, and my first posted fanfic is about it, and quite a bit of it, im winging this, well this is just fine and dandy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-04-30 02:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14487141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilvenWolf/pseuds/SilvenWolf
Summary: A family was what he wanted. A family was not what he deserved. A harpoon is what he had got.The police had always been on his tail and he had never once wanted to hand himself in until now. Give up the carfully constructed mess he called his life and put an end to what he had started. But the three boys had not been his only friends. He had two people who still called him a comrade, part of a family, their son.Though you cant put the fire out from inside the kitchen.But he can bloody well try.





	1. {Prolouge} This cant get any worse at least

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: I did a dumb and have been spelling patryck as patryk (the real guys name)   
> Just wanted to mention it will will be changed in future chapters in respect for the actual person ;o; 
> 
> Yo! So,,,  
> This is my first properly publically posted fanfiction, woo!!! 
> 
> Going to admit, im completely terrified. I have no idea where this is going, how frequently I will update or even how many chapters there will be but im HERE NOW AND IM NOT BACKING OUT ANY TIME SOON.
> 
> Well, not while I still have three other eddsword fanfics to work on ^^'  
> Admittedly i'm more of a drawer then a writer so constructive criticism is welcomed and friendly encouragement is stupidly lovely.
> 
> Sorry if the chapters are short oof.

It had all been a blur. 

He tapped his foot impatiently in frustration fueled rhythms as he racked his brain for any resemblance of a timeline. He picked and sorted the events as best as he could, laying them all out in his mind to begin on the puzzle he called the previous few days of his life. Choosing and placing the pieces together, he watched as it slowly formed a picture. But like every other time he had been through these motions, he only could watch as the slowly forming puzzle broke apart. It annoyed the absolute living hell out of his mind. Who had died? Who was he even aiming for? Jesus why had he even landed himself in this position? Oh yeah, because he was the infamous red leader. He saw what he wanted and took it, those morals were burnt deep into his very being. But what had he even really wanted to begin with?

The thoughts dispersed as a door opened, pulling him out of his pensive mood. Tord was almost thankful for the interruption until in dawned on him on why Paul had just entered into the room. His eyes shifted uncomfortably from Pauls face to whatever he was carrying. The harsh but dull lighting of the room made making out detail a headache but he had recognized the look of those small yet heavy white, warn boxes. A soldier's best friend next to a good bottle of liquor; a med kit. As Paul took a seat beside the much smaller looking boy, Tord held his breath, not wanting to meet his comrades eyes in fear of any sign of weakness to flood forward. He bit his tongue, cursing at himself for it.

“You sure you're up to this?” Paul deadpanned, smothering his cigarette out on the metal table between the two soldiers.

Tord stared at the ashes left on the table then scoffed, running his remaining good hand through his unkempt hair. “You think I can’t take it or something?” He shot back, his voice cracking at the last second sending a jolt of fear through his body. He froze as Paul’s eyes seemed to scrutinize him. He felt cold under the stare, the feeling of intimidation and weakness under another person's gaze was foreign to him and he immediately hated the sensation.

Then once again, the door swung open. It had made Tord jump in surprise and his uneasiness hadn’t been soothed by the new figure in the room either. Patryck stood at the doorway, his hands carrying a bowl of water which he sat next to the two men in the middle of the room. A cloth hung loosely on the side of the bowl, but it wasn’t that in which made his whole body go cold. His eyes landed on what was laying on top of said bowl, it’s blade sharpened and thick. He felt sick, the very sight of the saw made his mind dance in a tsunami of fear he never knew he could even feel. 

Patryck had probably noticed as he soon felt a comforting but sturn hand on his back, a gentle sign of comfort amongst the deafening quiet and dread.

A sigh came from Tord’s right side and he watched as Paul opened the white box with a quickness that told the Norwegian that he just wanted to get this over and done with. That urgency frightened him, he wish it didn’t.

“I have two pieces of good news and some bad news,” The man stated, picking through the box with focused eyes before glancing up at Tord, “What are you hoping on hearing first?”

Tord inhaled slowly, trying to recollect himself before replying. “Bad,” He said, trying his best at sounding like the sturdy leader he was.

Paul simply raised an eyebrow as he pulled out a syringe from that white box, inspecting it closely before placing it onto the table. “We will only be working with limited Anesthesia today, I apologize,” He started. His usually deadpan voice held a level of sincerity to it as he talked, it was becoming more and more evident to Tord that he didn’t want to go through with this either. It tugged at his heart but he swallowed his emotions down. “The good news is that you are still lucky enough to be getting Anesthesia for this procedure. I have known men who were not as lucky.”

There was a pause as if to let Tord register the information properly. I hadn’t even thought of the possibility of Anesthesia so I should be excited my this fact. So why do I still feel as though my very being is being crushed and bound. His thoughts hissed, circurling around his mind vulturously. His head perked up though as he watched Paul once again and his brows furrowed with confusion. “You said there was two pieces of good news didn’t you?” Tord inquired.

Paul didn’t say anything. He simply glanced up at Patryck before going back to his little scavenger hunt through the kit. Tord was now looking up at Patryck, waiting contently for an explanation when his comrade gave a little nod at Paul's silent signal.

“We were thinking about it and came to the conclusion that it's in our best interest to have our leader as fit as he can be. This includes still having two usable arms,” Patryck sort of half laughed but it had accidently came out very forced, “But we have officially designed and completed a new arm for your fitting once this whole thing is over,” He revealed with a mixture of joy and pride in his voice. His dark brown eyes were soft as they waited for Tord’s reaction, his smile genuine and warm. 

Tord should have felt happy, he knew that. After all of this was done, things would be mostly back to normal. He wouldn’t have to stay with a dysfunctional arm anymore! Yeah, his right eye would never be salvageable and the scars leading up the right side of his face and chest would never completely go away but he still had friends, a place to call home and functioning limbs. So why was he still feeling so fucking miserable.

Tord forced a smile upon his face as he looked down at his feet, his hand grabbing anxiously at the tattered, dried blood caked hoodie he had refused to take off these last few days. “Thank you so much, I seriously don’t deserve it,” He mumbled, trying to hide that a storm was brewing stronger in his chest with every passing moment. He stole a glance at Paul and couldn’t help but grimace as he watched the man close the box and inspect the small assortment of bottles and bandages he had placed on the table. Tord had immediately identified the bottles as penicillin, anesthesia and what looked like a bottle of straight alcohol. What he would give to be drinking that right now. 

“Can you move your arm?” Paul asked, leaning back on his chair as he swiped the end of the needle clean and proceeded to take liquid from what was left of the anesthesia. Tord stared at the end of the needle and felt his chest tighten. He had never been scared of needles but there was something about that sharp point that set something off in the back of his mind. 

“Not well, or without pain,” He stated, taking a deep breath in an attempt to relax. He tried to move his fingers, resulting in a bolt of pain up his forearm, causing him to wince slightly. He hated this, but he hated himself more for being the cause of it.

“Do you think you could place it on the table here?” Paul then asked, brushing the previously mentioned ash off of it. Tord gave a nod and carefully lifted the heavily scarred limb onto the table, ignoring the acute waves of pain that followed. Paul had carefully moved the assortment of medical equipment onto the floor to give him some space and he mentally thanked him for that.

The soldier then silently retrieved a piece of cloth which he started tying around half way up Tord’s upper arm, tying tightly enough to make him tense in pain. “It would probably be a good time to go fetch that new arm by the way.” Paul said, directed and what Tord could only believe as Patryck. His attentioned turned to back to the quiet man and he was almost surprised that he had forgotten he was even here. But he understood why once he saw his dull expression, his eyes filled with concern and sympathy. Most of all, he looked sick. His messy hair and dark tired circles under his eyes had made Tord realize just how much Patryck had been worrying about him. Even Paul gave off this sorrowful aura that convinced the Norwegian that even he wasn’t comfortable with the situation. The whole room just felt so...heavy. It felt as though it was Tord’s funeral or something. 

After an awkward silence, Patryck gave a nod before exiting the room, leaving Tord and Paul alone. Paul didn’t make any further comments after that, he simply went back to the situation at hand. Grabbing the syringe and adjusting himself to be sitting facing Tord, he carefully brang it down to joint of the arm where he very gently inserted it into what Tord assumed to be a vein. It had been surprisingly painless, if not for the sting of the anesthetic being injected. 

But then his whole body seemed to slow ever so slightly. A blanket of numb softly, faintly wrapped around his mind and he relaxed with the waves of calm. Well shit, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much as he had thought it once would. Nothing could hurt more than losing a home you had become so comfortable in, losing a family you once thought you could never live without. Nothing could hurt more then looking into those blackened eyes of a person you once shared memories with, filled with a rage he had never encountered before. Icarus was always destined to fall from the sky, but the story had failed to mention it was the very friends he turned his back on which were the ones to surely bring him tumbling back to the ground. 

He was soon to be proved very wrong. 

It had taken him a bit to realize Patryck had re entered the room, carrying something he was too out of it to really make out or actually care about, and it had taken him even longer to notice Paul was speaking. 

“You ready? The anesthesia isn’t enough to completely knock you out but hopefully it will make this more bearable,” He said, also holding something out of focus but probably important. “We can do it on the count of 3 if you like,” He added, confusing Tord for a second until he noticed he hadn’t responded to the previous question. He quickly nodded, his brain finally registering what his comrade had been asking.

“1,” he heard Paul start to count. Everything in his being tensed at the sound. His eyes shut tight as he made a last ditch attempt to stop his anxiety fueled thoughts becoming too much. He felt something cold and metallic rest gently just below where the fabric had been tied.

“2,” at least Paul was giving him this much. He didn't deserve it, he knew that, but it was what he was being given anyway. What a weird world. Why hadn't he just lost his arm to the wreckage, maybe he wouldn't have to be going through this right now, maybe the blood loss would have gotten him. But part of him wished that Tom would have just had better aim. Now that's what he deserved. 

“3”


	2. Two concerned dads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Patryk's name has indeed been changed to patryck in respect for the original person. I,,,kinda only reccently learnt about t h a t))
> 
> Also I think I forgot to mention this fanfic wont have consitant or even probably frquent updates. I WILL finish it, I just am doing it at my own pace.  
> Possible future illustrations to! we will have to see <3

A scream escaped his throat as pain ruptured from his right side. It was so sudden, even with the countdown he couldn’t ever prepare for the feeling of cold metal opening bear skin. Fuck. 

He went to retract his arm violently, his mind spinning with pain and fear, but he couldn't. It was grasped tightly, pinned down to the table in an iron grip. He couldn't even feel the pain of Paul's hand on his barely healed wounds, not amongst the new pain. He doubled over slightly, coughing as he tried to catch a breath amongst it all but he had no time. 

“I'm so sorry,” another hack at his arm was taken, causing him to yell once again. His whole body felt cold, excluding the waves of unforgiving pain that had set his right arm on fire. God, when had he started crying. He sobbed, shaking violently as a blanket of darkness began to cover his vision. Fuck this. There was no way he would be passing out over this. He was the leader of a communist army who was willing to gun down anyone who stood in his way, ‘and this is pathetic’ his mind snapped at him.

“Just get it over with!” Tord hissed through clenched teeth, the reserged fury assisting him in pushing back the tugs of unconsciousness that were frustratingly persistent. If his vision wasn’t swimming so much he might have noticed the way Paul receded painfully in remorse. He was expecting it this time but it did very little to dull the pain. Biting down on his tongue, he was able to suppress down another scream as another wave of pain hit him hard. Sobs wracked his chest and he soon felt warm tears falling down his cheek, stinging the still healing scars on his right side. 

Hearing a voice he tried to make it out over the ringing in his ears, but he couldn’t decipher it over the searing pain. Feeling something lay carefully on his shoulders he tried to open his eyes to see what had touched him but he couldn’t. His mind was desperate to make sense of it all, but his vision was quickly fading into a hazy blur. Then it went black. 

 

-=-=-

 

“-that it works?”

Tord groaned as sound started filling his mind, his senses finally starting to come back to him. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking as he tried to make out where he was and what was happening. 

“Calm down hun, I don’t doubt your work for a second. He will be awake soon anyway...probably,” His brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the conversation. It was coming from a room only meters away from the one he was currently in, he guessed by the slight muffling of the voices. With his brain still recovering from only just awakening, it made his head pound faintly, making him groan again in discomfort. 

His grumble had obviously been heard by the pair in the next room because their conversation had suddenly fallen silent. That’s when a concerned man glanced around the wall to investigate the noise, a frown settling on his face as he noticed the boy was awake. 

“Red leader! How are you feeling?” The man, in which Tord had quickly recognized as Patryck, asked in a hushed tone. His expression was drenched in worry and the way his hair fell messily over his tired eyes made it very apparent that he hadn’t gotten any rest.

“Honestly? Fucking terrible,” he replied dryly, feeling an ache shiver down his body as he attempted to sit up on whatever he was resting on. Realizing that that wouldn’t work, he resorted to just looking lazily around the room in an attempt to process where he was. First of all, the room was lit in a very soft orange glow which seemed to flicker every few seconds. ‘Candle light!’ soon he noticed, even even if it took him awhile, so without the proper lighting making out of the rest of the room was kind of headache inducing. 

“We found a old abandoned house to camp out in,” Tord soon heard Patryck say, probably after noticing the boy’s confusion. That was enough to ease his mind at least, the room quickly becoming less unknown and scary to his still recovering mind. The next thing he noticed was that what he was resting on was a couch. His head was rested on the couch’s arm, his body wrapped in a tattered blanket, which at least did its job and he felt his right arm propped up by something he couldn’t quite figure out. Quickly, he had to take a double take at this. A mixture of confused panic which quickly devolved into irrational fear at the unexpected limb made him jump, his eyes widening before he promptly fell off the couch with a thump. He was pretty content on just lying there too if it wasn't for a very scared Patryck. 

“Sir!” Patryck called out, his worry only deepening as Tord simply grunted in reply, his body tangled in the blanket and face buried in his good arm. The smaller boy whimpered slightly as he felt Patryck’s hands grab him and hoist him up carefully, placing him back on the couch and untangling Tord from his blanket prison. 

“I’m fine,” Tord huffed, weakly shoving his comrade away as he tried to reclaim control over his thoughts. Patryck gave an uncertain but understanding nod as he turned back to the room he had just come from, deciding to give Tord some space. It gave the Norwegian time to think and breath, his mind finally functioning to a level where it could process what had happened. 

Metal, Fear, Pain, Darkness. 

That…doesn’t really help. That's when his mind finally went back to focusing on the thing that led him to fall off the damn couch in the first place. 

It was shiny, metallic, the red paint smooth and glossy. Slowly, he uncovered it completely from the sheets, wincing slightly as the part where it connected to his upper arm whined painfully at the movement. Curiously, he curled and uncurled the fingers, watching in a trance of fascination by the way the blackened joints curled smoothly with his intended movements. Patryck really did do a good job at assembling the new arm. Tord could almost forget that he lost his original in the first place. A frown crawled onto his face though as he ran his fingers over the arm once more, fingertips brushing slowly from the top of the forearm down to his palm. He felt the contact but it was the most oddest sensation as his new arm couldn't register the details of what was touching it. It felt the contact, not the rough but soft feeling of calloused fingers. He ran his metal hand through his hair, the odd feeling of not being able to tell the actual texture of anything still present. That…might require some getting used to. 

“You okay there, sir?” Tord almost fell off the couch again in surprise as a voice suddenly disrupted his train of thoughts. He relaxed shortly though as his eyes met Paul’s deep grey ones, his expression calm excluding the hints of guilt that seemed to contrast his neutral features. Tord raised one of his eyebrows once he saw Patryck also peeking into the room, obviously still as anxious as before even if he looked as though he was certainly making an effort to not be wearing his anxiety so clearly on his face this time.

Quickly he shook his head dismissively, his eyes wondering back down to his hands that now lay calmly in his lap. “There is literally nothing to worry about, you can stop fussing over me like a child you know,” He said before lifting his right hand up and giving the fingers a slight flex, “If it’s about the arm, it works fine-” His eyes widened as he felt warm arms wrap around him comfortingly, a small confused whine escaping his lips as he noticed he was suddenly being hugged. 

“What the- What do the pair of you think you are doing?” Tord grumbled, looking down at the two men who had now decided a cuddle pile was required at this moment. He was honestly slightly stunned at the sudden act of reassurance and if he was thinking straight then he probably would have squirmed out of it, continued complaining about being fussed about and ordered the two to leave him the hell alone. But he didn’t. Instead, he found himself leaning into the hug, his arms slowly moving to return the embrace as his chest tightened in an unconscious attempt to hold back the tears that were now forming in the corner of his eyes. 

“You two sappy idiots, I can look after myself you know,” Tord mumbled, through his tears and accent the words seemed to mingle together in something almost intellegeable. His tone was something that seemed to want to be stern but fell terribly short, instead coming out soft and vulnerable and the two soldiers simply held the scarred boy closer in reply, in this comfortable silence that didn’t need words. It said ‘It’s okay to hurt, it’s okay to need someone’. 

The boy soon relaxed, letting all his walls come crumbling down in this moment of time and instead be replaced by the words the comforting silence brought. 

‘What had he done to deserve this?’ his mind softly pondered before giving in to the allurement of rest.

 

-=-=-

Paul had guided him to a mirror the next day as he had grown tired of Tord’s demand for one. As his position as leader of the whole red army had grown inconsequential to the two men due to the extensive history the three of them had shared, Tord had been elated over the discovery of another way to get what he had wanted. And that was that Paul had very minimal resistance to persistent complaining. Tord had quickly learnt how to use this knowledge to his liking, happy to abuse this tactic that got him what he wanted without having to resort to physical threats. Paul was one of his right hand men after all and a right hand man is surely just a draw back when they suddenly don't have a literal right hand anymore. 

Tord didn’t know what he expected when he looked into the mirror. He supposed he expected to be greeted with the same figure he had seen a mind numbingly amount of times before. The same bronze coloured hair that covered his pale skin. His two rusty, burgundy eyes would stare back at him and then, more often than not, he would be wearing either his casual red hoodie or the red and navy blue of the militaristic outfit he would occasionally brandish. It was odd to think back to that red hoodie which had been regrettably ruined along with his right side. He felt as though he didn’t have the right to wear it anymore anyway, not after the memories he had so affectionately required in the years he did wear it. It was his decision to reject that life so it was almost poetic that the outfit he associated with it had been taken by the wreckage too. For once in his life he longed for either outfits just for the comfort of something familiar, just something better than the baggy, black tank top that he had been forced into after Patryck had decided his old hoodie unfit to continue wearing. 

On top of that, now he stood in front of a mirror looking at someone so foreign that it made him sick. His left hand ran softly down his right cheek, tracing the sensitive gashes that were only now starting to heal. He retracted his hand violently as bolt of pain shot acutely through the right side of his face causing him to hiss in anger. But he forced himself to stop fussing over his now half shredded face and instead inspect his right eye that he was only now noticing. The eyelids seemed be permanently half closed, possibly frozen there once the muscles had been damaged by what he could only guess as shrapnel from what the slash over that eye suggested. But still, he could make out the iris and pupil which were still slightly visible. Once deep, burgundy was now desaturated to an almost ghostly white. His pupil was no more than a cloudy haze, the way his newly formed cataract starred lifelessly back at him send an uneasiness down his spine which had prompted him to break eye contact with the mirror. 

Suddenly, he felt overly aware of Paul standing silently at the doorway. Had he been here the whole time? Sighing, he pulled away from the small medicine cabinet’s mirror, turning to look over at the silent man instead. “Something bothering you Soldier?” Tord inquired, noticing the way Paul seemed to nervously fidget at the site of his wounded leader. 

“I just wanted to,” Paul paused as though he had lost the word for a moment before continuing, “Apologize,” Tord blinked dumbly, completely stumped at the statement. Paul quickly became visibly uncomfortable at the silence, his eyes trained on the ground as if wanting to be anywhere other than in this situation right now. 

“For what?” Tord inquired, leaning lazily on the sink, still a bit taken aback by the sudden apology. He couldn’t help but tense up as he saw Paul look up from the floor to only shoot a glance at his right arm, the feeling of being scrutinized making the room feel a lot smaller than before. Tord sighed, pushing himself off of the sink before burying his mechanical hand into the pocket of his pants, brushing past Paul as he exited the small room. “If it's about the arm, forget it,” Tord ordered, narrowing his eyes at the taller man as he passed. “I won’t allow weakness in this army. Either you die or you suck it up, those are the morals I have set and stand by to this day. I do not require you or Patryck’s pity.”

While making his way down the hallway and towards his room in silence, Tord had to use every bit of his strength to not look back at Paul. Guilt constricted painfully in his chest, not for his words per say since after all he did mean them, but for the fact that he knew Paul was genuinely just sorry. He was feeling responsible for what had happened and Tord had done nothing to comfort those thoughts even after all the things the soldier had done for him. 

And through all of that, he didn’t see Paul run a hand through his hair and sigh, instead heading the opposite way down the call. Stopping at the doorway to what could be considered a living room he knocked on the old wood, making Patryck jump and turn his attention to him from the couch. For a simple temporary base they really had made it feel almost homey, I suppose that will happen when you have such a domestic lover like Pat. Where he went, the home went.

“What’s up love?” Patryck had put down his book and was now completely focused on the man in front of him. Paul took a moment to find solace in his lover’s wide, caring eyes, finding himself calmer with every second he took to gaze into them.

“It’s about Tord,” He finally replied, his thoughts clearer then they had been in awhile, “I think it’s due time we do something about his dilemma.” 

“Oh? I feel as though you have something in mind,” Patryck piped up with bright mirth, already grabbing his every day jacket that had been draped over the couches arm. It had been so hard to hide the smile Paul could feel creeping onto his face as he saw Pat already getting ready for whatever stupid scheme he had in mind this time. 

“There may be a certain few people we first need to track down to make this work…”


End file.
